


After Zero

by ImperialGirl



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Chiss smut, F/M, If you want clinical detail visit a urologist or OB/GYN, Kept Woman, Mild Dom/Sub Relationship, Post Atollon, Rough Sex, Thrawn Has a Secret, Vaginal Sex, Zero Hour, crackfic, het smut, wall bang her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10466568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialGirl/pseuds/ImperialGirl
Summary: Thrawn keeps a secret, and during Zero Hour, she waits to find out if she has to face being the mistress of a dead leader.  Pure crack, could be new canon compliant, has nothing to do with my other fic (though if you want to read the unnamed narrator as an alternate-universe Lisetha, she doesn't mind. ;) )





	

She had no official identity in the Imperial Navy, and that was her second-greatest fear. Even the crew of the _Chimaera_ , who unofficially were aware of her existence, viewed her more as a species of benign ghost: seldom seen, never heard, and certainly never spoken of. Once in a very great while she found tiny offerings, like gifts to a spirit, a superstitious attempt to buy influence with the Admiral by appealing to the living jewel and most closely-kept object in his collection. She never hid the little gifts from him, of course, he would have known and there would be consequences, nor did she make any pleas on the givers' behalves. She did suspect, though, that those who left items for her amusement or pleasure might find their service more closely observed and excellence just a bit more generously rewarded. 

The incompetent couldn't buy mercy, though.

Today, though, as they sat raining green fire on a world called Atollon, she was alone again in his quarters with her first fear, the one she had lived with even before he was ripped from her by exile and she'd finally followed, chasing him across the galaxy until she had found him still a warrior but serving the human Empire. Loving a warrior was dangerous. Loving an exile, impossible. But she'd felt she had no choice. It was not until the first night after she'd found him on the distant human capital, not until they were safe together in the dark that she'd realized it was no longer a feeling but fact. A lover, even one of his own species, was a target, and while Chiss politics had been her family's milieu for a hundred generations or more this was Palpatine's court and she would have no allies here. Seclusion was her only shelter, and his rising influence, and that meant where he went, she followed. As an Admiral, now a Grand Admiral, he had the power to make that happen and to protect her, but it made for a very lonely life.

And it meant he was, quite literally, her world.

Most of the time, she was content with that. There were times they were even what she could call happy, mostly after another successful mission, another victory. He'd rest in her arms, for once free of any tension or anger and the natural urges of a victorious warrior sated as they should be. She never felt safer than those moments, aching from pleasure and pain he roused in her with hands and mouth and teeth and hard, deep thrusts of his cock (slow, lingering, violent or rushed, it never mattered which he needed, in the end she always cried out, her body throbbing with pleasure that burned like plasma even if his fingers dug marks into her flesh), knowing he had returned triumphant and would only rise to greater heights--not of glory, but of power. Unlike these strange humans, he was a true Chiss warrior and cared nothing for his personal fame. Medals and rewards and public acclaim were inconsequential. He craved power to command fleets and direct battles and select targets without restriction, to conduct his grand strategy and answer to no one but the Emperor ( _For now,_ but he only whispered that in her ear, in the darkest moments of the night, where no spies or ambitious rivals could hear and cry treason.) And she would rise with him, stand at his side, and someday when the time was right give him the heir to carry on the empire he was building. Someday perhaps they would even return to what both still called home. Her family would regret the broken contract on that day.

If it came. If he survived _this_ day.

She'd expressed such misgivings to him the night before. He'd known it would come tomorrow, the unmasking of the real traitor and the final destruction of the Rebels, and as was typical, he hadn't required any more from her at first than a listening ear and gentle caresses. She didn't know if he sincerely subscribed to the ancient superstition about a warrior saving his strength for battle, but he seemed to prefer it that way. This night, he'd called her to him in his command room, and she'd curled in his arms, enjoyed his absent caresses of her hair or her thigh, while he talked about the artwork surrounding them. She enjoyed art as much as the next person, provided the next person wasn't Thrawn, but this had been about more than the aesthetic value. The kalikori in particular fixated him-a precious, rare piece of Twi'lek culture, but also a reminder of the pure destructive spite of the Rebel Hera Syndulla. He loathed that kind of revolt for revolt's sake, the refusal to bow to legitimate authority, and the inevitable chaos it created. But he was sanguine, knowing that in all probability, the next day Syndulla would be dead, and her revolt along with her. The kalikori would, as all art did, live on. 

It was that confidence, though, that made her shiver and burrow closer into his arms, whisper, "But what if something goes wrong?" She only dared whisper, and in Cheunh. They couldn't be overheard, not here, but caution was the watchword everywhere in the Empire. Especially when what was said could be interpreted as doubt. 

He chuckled, a low, indulgent sound so rarely heard even by her. "Really, pet? So little confidence in me?" The brush of his lips was soothing, but they came with a nip of teeth against her neck. 

"You have the warrior's own luck," she murmured, eyes closed. "But that luck can always change. There are always unknowns, you say so yourself."

"No plan ever survives contact with the enemy," he chided. "This one is no different. But I have studied these rebels. Considered the possible complications. I have the entire Seventh Fleet and resources beyond it to bring to bear. They may fall hard, but they will fall." He tilted her chin up. "Do I need to remind you how thorough I can be?"

He knew her body better than she did, had studied it with the same calculation he did any work of art. He might restrain himself, deny himself, saving his strength and focus for the battle, but he knew this would comfort her. The challenge was muffling her cries against him, biting down until her lip bled, her fingers twisting the pristine white fabric of his uniform into hopeless wrinkles as he demonstrated that even with a single finger, two, a flick of his thumb, he could make someone beg for mercy. When she was quivering with the aftermath of his 'lesson', he'd led her back to his quarters and she'd been able to sleep, a little. 

Now she waited. 

She knew the moment when the bombardment stopped. The _Chimaera_ 's deck plates vibrated every time the massive turbolaser batteries fired and the stillness was terrifying. She sat on the bed, her knees tucked up to her chin, and closed her eyes. He'd be leaving now. He could give command of final ground assault to the army, but that was not their peoples' way. You could not command from the safety of the rear. A Chiss warrior lead from the front. He fought with his soldiers, and if necessary he died with them. And if Thrawn died today, she was lost. Oh, she could flee, beg Pryce's help, seek out Parck who naturally knew who she was. _But what would be the point of that if Thrawn were dead?_ It would be easier if the entire ship were destroyed and her with it than to face life without him. She could access the computers, if she really wished, risk someone on the crew noticing the access from the Admiral's quarters when he wasn't there, but he might be angry. Everyone who knew about her was another risk, because she was an ironclad way to get to him and she was never certain what he feared more: discovering that he could choose to sacrifice her for his goals, or discovering that he couldn't. It would be better to wait, to hold off knowing as long as she could if the news was bad.

It was seconds, or it was days. The door opened.

He was still in his armor, the helmet dangling in his hands, and for an instant all she could see was that he was alive, that there wasn't a fleck of blood or even dust on his uniform. She pushed herself to her feet and took a step, ready to help unbuckle the body armor, but she paused, and the congratulations died on her lips. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. She had never seen the look in his eyes before, not even the day they had come for him, to drag him away and strip him of every rank and accomplishment, leaving him nothing but his name and enough food and supplies to keep from dying immediately on whatever uninhabited prison he'd be abandoned on. Then he'd only smiled that tight little smirk, as if he'd known this was merely a temporary setback. Now . . . she wasn't sure he saw her, or the room, or anything. His gaze seemed fixed on something far beyond normal sight, something deep within his own mind. 

But he was alive. He wasn't injured. The ships had not jumped to hyperspace, there were no more turbolaser blasts or distant sounds of battle alarms. That had to mean victory, didn't it?

"Thrawn?" She reached out. 

His eyes fixed on her and she heard the clatter of the helmet dropping to the floor. Before she could begin to process that he’d grabbed her, fingers pressing like claws against her cheeks as he forced her to look him straight in the eye. She gasped, but it was as if he was searching for something, trying to remind himself who she was, what she was doing here. She went still, an animal instinct, except her hand. Delicately, she caressed his cheek, and was startled to realize he was trembling.

Then she was against the wall, the armor pressing hard and unyielding. His face was against her neck and she felt the press of his teeth, but he didn't bite down. His hand was between their bodies, fumbling with uncharacteristic clumsiness at the fly of his uniform's breeches. She knew what he wanted, could work the hooks without seeing, and he shuddered and bit down on her shoulder as her fingers brushed the hard length of his erection. Then he pulled her hand away, clawing her thin gown up to her waist and pulling her leg up to his hip. There was no choice now except to cling to him as he lifted her just enough and thrust hard. She muffled a scream against the hard gold plate on the armor's shoulder strap, she wasn't ready, but he drove deep into her without hesitation, quick, hard, possessive, with a desperation she never recalled feeling in him before. She writhed, trying to match the brutal rhythm, crushed between the hard chest plate and the bulkhead. 

His mouth played across her collarbone, but she couldn't think clearly enough to decide if they were kisses or bites. "Come for me." His teeth rasped against her skin. "Prove you're warm. Prove you're real." In their tongue, there could be no doubt that was an order, not a request. Her inner walls tightened around him and her efforts to move became more frantic. His grasp tightened, and there was a growl low in his throat as he held her in place. She heard, with a strange detachment, her own breathing coming in hard fast gasps as he drove harder, faster, and the first shuddering waves pulsed through her body. Her limbs lost some of their strength and now she needed the crushing pressure holding her upright as she moaned and for once, he didn't try to hush her. 

He let her slip free, her feet sliding back to the floor, but she leaned against him, trembling too much to stand on her own. He was always eager after a true battle, where a clever, worthy opponent had finally gone down in honorable defeat. It was at times like those she would often recall how nearly every culture with any pantheon of gods had at least one who was a warrior. Their people weren't supposed to be passionate in public, and even marriages were questions of politics and reproduction, but in the dark, they had the same hungers as most others of the species the Empire so chauvanisticaly called 'near-humans.' But this . . . this was different. Thrawn might be demanding in meeting his own needs, and she knew even when he didn't say he also reveled in seeing her pleasure in him. Even here, he was a perfectionist. Now, though, the bruising grip felt desperate, and she could feel his cock still hard between them, feel the tension gripping his entire body. It took a bit longer for males to finally release, especially when the goal was only pleasure, but the urgency she felt in him, the desperation . . . she would have thought he needed that more than he needed to make her come as if he were proving he could.

She'd barely realized they were moving before he threw her down across the bed, and he was forcing her legs apart and on top of her nearly as fast. Now she was almost afraid. To another Chiss there was nothing strange about his eyes as a rule-her own glowed just as red-but something more than their natural color blazed in them now. His hands were on her shoulders, pinning her down, and that primal instinct from before gripped her again. She felt the tip of him tease at her nether lips and shivered, wanting and afraid of more of that animal assault in the same breath. 

Now that she was wet for him, he could have taken her in a single thrust and she'd have welcomed it. Instead, he pressed slowly, what felt like a millimeter at a time, and she arched up, moaning, but he held her in place. "You _are_ real, heart's-flame, aren't you." 

"Yes, love," she breathed, her voice catching as he slowly, slowly filled her.

"Warm. Alive." He pushed as deep as he could, impaled her, and she rocked her hips, unable to bear the fullness and wanting more at the same time. "And _I_ am alive?"

"Alive," she echoed, as he began to move in rhythm with her, slow, torturous stroked as she tightened around him, tried to draw him deep within her. "Or a god come to life. Please . . . ."

"A god?" Something about that seemed to amuse him. "No, not a god. I may even have killed one of those today. Cold arms, he said . . . you aren't cold, are you?" His movements were coming quicker, building, more and more matched to her own spasms. He let go of her shoulder, trusting her to stay down beneath him (as if she could have wished to be anywhere other than here, taking him, molding her body to his) and stroked a wild tangle of her hair back from her face. "Your arms are warm. Welcoming."

"And yours," she managed, through the heat building in her, the rippling waves of pleasure greater than she could remember ever feeling starting. Not since the first time, ages ago, when like any foolish young betrothed discovering each other they'd thought they'd melt their world's very ice. "Entirely yours."

"Mine," he agreed, as if there'd been any question, and he sank down, burying himself in her, thick and hard and so much she was dizzy with the fullness and she flung her arms around him, ignoring the sharp-edged armor and how it tore at her rumpled gown and would no doubt leave bruises. He held them still a moment, and in an unusual act for him he kissed her, a crushing, bruising kiss that was an assault of lips and tongue and teeth. She wailed against his mouth as her hips bucked sharply, beyond her control. Now he moved without restraint, pounding, brutal, and she moved with him, begged for him, and he groaned against her neck. She was coming again, writhing around him, wanting even as she did to feel his own climax inside her, know that she had driven him to this, the only loss of control he ever permitted himself, the one only she was allowed to witness. Then, with a cry in Cheunh that sounded like triumph, he did, carrying her back to the peak of release with him. Now some control was hers, only for a moment, and she clung to him, tightening around him, drawing out each shuddering aftershock for as long as she could. 

Finally they simply lay in each other's arms, the weight of him and the solid bulk of the armor doing nothing to make wish he'd move. He had come back to her. Whatever strange twist to his battle plan had prompted his odd questions and the terrible look in his eyes had not claimed his life or done some irreparable harm. She was his, he was, in his way, hers, and if all was not right with the galaxy, it was in her tiny corner of it. He would tell her later, if it suited him, exactly what had happened. At the very least he always told her the general story of a battle, where his plans had worked, where some unforeseen factor had forced him to rethink at the last minute. She would listen, ask questions when necessary, offer commentary where she could, and all the while thank whatever powers were listening for sending him back to her yet again.

Thrawn finally lifted himself on his elbows, relieving the weight pressing down on her and prompting a sigh of disappointment at the same time. He was back with her fully, his gaze taking in the wild waves of her hair like unspun shimmersilk across the blankets, no doubt noting the way her lips swelled from his kiss, how her gown was half torn away, the places where pale azure skin was coloring with indigo marks. Marks he made, marks of possession, even if no one but him ever saw. Someday . . . .

She smiled, knowing how she must look and blissfully content with it. "Does the artwork on display please the Grand Admiral?" she teased. Another thing no one but her would ever dare.

Thrawn's smile was that knowing, satisfied smirk that enemies and allies alike despised, and which she had loved from the first. "A masterpiece."


End file.
